Off Broadway
by spheeris1
Summary: AU-ish :: Angst :: One shot :: Ashley POV :: Title is a Ryan Adams song :: Like Thomas Wolfe said, you can't go home again...


It's been a while and it's not just the lay of the land that tells you this.

It's been a while and the sand doesn't seem as hot, the ocean doesn't seem as lovely, the streets don't appear to be paved in gold.

Not that where you've been was any better. Just different. That's all - just different faces and different names.  
But the roads were still long and the nights were still lonely and the games were played the exact same way.

And you can't call anyone up, because you erased the numbers ages ago.  
And you can't open a door and go inside, because that house was sold years ago.  
And you can't say her name, can't say it and can't think it and can't write it down on a piece of paper.

Because she got pulled out to sea and you didn't try to reach her back then.

No use trying now.

/

He forgave you for being needy and he forgave you for being stupid.  
And he looks you over with a mixture of surprise and concern - like he still knows you and like he still gives a damn.

You think he is too soft-hearted.

"Wow."  
"You've already said that."  
"I know... it's just... it's been a **really** long time, Ash."

You smile and nod and take another sip of that beer.  
His porch smells like cedar and there is salt in the air coming off those waves and it takes you back as much as it repels you.

Takes you to summers that didn't want to end. Takes you to pursuits based off of whims. Takes you to a love that weighs on your back like anvil.

"Why didn't you call me up? I could have gone to the airport-"  
"No need. I wanted to kick around some on my own."  
"Oh... Have you talked to anyone else yet?"  
"Nope."  
"...How'd you find **me**?"  
"I googled you."

He laughs and you smirk and you both drink and watch the day die against the shoreline.

/

Yes, but there, in your dreams...

In your dreams, you aren't so aloof and impenatrable. You are thin skinned and delicate and raw. You break so easily, shards of you scattered in the wind.

In your dreams, on that couch that you didn't leave because you got drunk, you are beating on her window and you are crying and you are begging.

Asking to come home.

/

It's the eyes that kill you.

But you know that it will take the rest of your life to actually die.

She smiles, which is breathtaking and awkward, because you'd fall to your knees if she gave you single sign to do so.  
She doesn't, though. And so you don't.

"I can't believe it... I mean, you are **here**, you're **back**!"

She won't hug you, but she won't let you escape without a touch.  
Her hand on your shoulder, a slight squeeze. And still it carries such heat, such affection.

Of course, you might be imagining that aspect.

"Thought it was about time, you know."  
"Um, so, how was New York?"

She leans against this bar and you lean with her, the two of you like toppling pillars - aiming for strength and faltering in each other's gaze.  
It's not just you... is it? It's not just you feeling this strange sensation of longing... is it?

"It was pretty good. Stressful sometimes, but good."  
"What made you come back now?"

You want to say that it is her. You want to say it is the past. You want to say it is your dreams.

"Well, you can take the girl out of L.A. but you can't take L.A. out of the girl."

She smiles again and you wonder if she knows you are lying.  
There was a time she would definitely know your truth from your bull-shit.

But maybe you lost that, too.

Maybe you lost everything the day you left.

Just take away that 'maybe' and you've got all your answers.

/

Everyone wants a happy ending.  
And you think that everyone will get one - everyone but you.

You had your shot and you know it. You had your chance and you blew it.  
You had it in your hands and you threw it away.

/

She gets a call and steps away, but you hear it all anyway.

"Hey... Oh, no, I won't be too long... Hmm? Oh, right, right... No, I didn't forget..."

And you hear the smile on her face, you don't have to see it to know it is there.  
You hear the joy and you hear the comfort and you hear the contentment.

And the old you would jump pretty high to wreck whatever she's got going on.

But the new you doesn't have that kind of ambition.  
You just watch what could have been slip further and further away.

"Listen, I gotta go but I'll be there in... thirty minutes or so, okay? Yea. Okay... Love you too."

She turns back around and apologizes and you wave that sentiment off.  
This girl in front of you has nothing to apologize for, that's your job and you still aren't doing it well.

"So, now, where were we? New York and how great it was?"

Her eyes, her damn eyes, they are hurting you and they are amazing and suddenly you can't do this. But it's not sudden. You could never handle this girl, could never understand her worth, couldn't ever be the one to keep her.

You leave. It's what you do.  
You push and prod until all people walk away.  
You are damaged goods and you like to always remember it.

This time will be no different.  
Just like the roads and just like the streets. Just like the beach and just like tide rolling in.

"Believe me, it's not that interesting. Sounds like you've got plans... I don't want to keep you from them."  
"Oh, no, really it's okay. Promise. Besides, this is the first time we've seen each other in four years... I want to catch up."

Four years. Five months. Thirty-five days. Endless hours and minutes and seconds.

"I'll be around. We can do this later. **Promise**."

And you wink and for a moment you swear she catches you, she catches you in your misery and you swallow hard because there are no excuses handy if she presses you on this subject.  
If she presses you, you'll cave and the world as you know it will end.

But she doesn't press you, though. And so you are still standing.

"Then I'll hold you to that promise. You've got my cell number?"  
"Yep."  
"And I've got yours... Alright, well, then I'm out of here. We'll talk... right?"

And, for a moment, you swear that she looks worried about you disappearing again and you wonder if she has a right to feel that way and you wish you could ask her without it tipping her off.

But you just nod your head and force a grin.  
And she gives you a quick embrace, barely there, then she is gone.

/

She should have known better, though.

You never keep your promises.

/

The clock still ticks in time to everything else - the taxi horns and the dripping of the faucet, the sound of your shoes across the hardwood floor.

The mail is piled up by the door. There are messages on the machine.  
It's colder here, just the start of autumn, and the sun hides behind gray clouds.

Nothing like California.

And, yet, it is the just the same as anywhere else.  
Long roads. Lonely nights. Games to be played.  
Faces that aren't as pretty. Names that aren't as cherished.

But here, in New York, there isn't a past. And there isn't a future.  
Just the present.

And that is all you can handle.

/

She calls you exactly three times and you never answer.

/

**-END-**


End file.
